


Primroses

by Lumakiri



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask, The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time
Genre: Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22632760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumakiri/pseuds/Lumakiri
Summary: A young Hero of Time travels home from Termina
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	Primroses

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bright Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/557728) by Art Garfunkel. 



_Is it a kind of a dream,  
_ _Floating out on the tide_

The lonely daylight cast patterns on the earth through the canopy above, weak and cold and shattered by the silhouettes of a thousand leaves. It settled on the undergrowth like a frost, and welled there in the dimples of petals and the crooks of thorns. They crackled in protest at the boots above as they crossed unseen through the woods. 

The boy walked alone. 

The path was old and worn and somehow new all at once. Trees tall and gnarled climbed over each other in their quest ever upwards. Saplings snapped at wooden heels, seeking to join their elders far above. A forest eons old and yet forever youthful. Nature was a beast untamed to its own laws. It wasn't his forest, though. The trunks and roots didn't hold secrets that were whispered to him through the trembling of leaves in spring. There was no magic here except that of his own making. 

_Following the river of death downstream  
_ _Oh, is it a dream?_

He thought of many things. Humorous anecdotes, facts about all the critters that skittered through the leaf litter, wonderings of what those at home may be doing now. They all died on his lips, the silence of the morning unbroken. He had no one to share them to except himself, and he'd gone over each and every story in his head enough times to commit them to memory. The trees here wouldn't speak to him. 

The boy stopped by a brook that gurgled its way through the dawn. It languidly flowed through its winding bed of pebbles and reeds, cold and pure. Pale and fragile hands brought it to his face, and he eagerly slaked his thirst. 

_There's a fog along the horizon  
_ _A strange glow in the sky_

Above, the first raindrops of the morning began to fall, trickling off of the catkins and joining the brook in its long journey to some distant ocean. The sunlight caught in the crevices of wildflowers was replaced by pearls of water. Sated, he rose to his feet and began again on the path. 

He knew not where it led, nor from where it came. Perhaps he had set upon it with home in mind, once. He was content to follow it through the meadows and copses, meander with it across soft hills and gentle valley. It was his constant guide across this foreign land, through bramble thicket and river bed, it never yielded.

 _And nobody seems to know where it goes,  
_ _And what does it mean?  
_ _Oh, is it a dream?_

Gentle, rhythmic tapping of rain on the earth lulled him into quieter thoughts. The drizzle settled into a fine mist along the distant fields, glimpsed in snatches through breaks in the trees. Betwixt creeping branches and thick treetops, he could see only thick, pale grey cloud. They glowed with stolen sunlight, snatched and caught by the hungry oaks before it reached him, far down below. 

He found himself whispering snippets of old songs in fervent hopes the forest would sing them back to him; oh why did the trees here not speak to him? He could ask them of all the things they saw, of when the berries would ripen and the ferns uncurl. He’d ask them if they’d seen her, the friend he had yet to find.

 _Is it a kind of a shadow,  
_ _Reaching into the night,  
_ _Wandering over the hills unseen,_

Ah, that was the reason he had begun upon this road. It felt like an exhaustingly long time ago, the memory wavering dangerously in and out of recollection. The boy knew not how long he’d been walking since he left that terrible place, only that it was far, far behind him. This forest may not want to talk to him, but it was a safe place, free from danger. 

What a cursed place had he fallen into, that even nature worked against him. Unlike the malice that had ensnared his home before he freed it of the wicked man, that place held an old, ancient evil. It had run through the very roots of the earth and the taste of the wind. The very fabric of that country was woven with it. He could not even be sure it was a real place, for all the people there shared the faces of those he knew, like a twisted mockery of his own golden land.

 _Or is it a dream?  
_ _There's a high wind in the trees,  
_ _A cold sound in the air,_

He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. There was no need to think of it anymore, and he let it slip from his memory like a bad dream. Only he, the path, and the woods remained. It began to curve westward, away from the fields, into the dark. Shapes darted away from him through bracken and shrub, given away by the soft crunch of dead leaves. The looming ash trees grew closer together here, peculiar toadstools at their feet among clusters of bluebell. Less and less of the frail sunlight illuminated his way as he followed his trail far into the deepwood. Underfoot became sodden and little pools of brackish water gathered in his wake.

He was not afraid of where the path took him. He cared not about the journey home, or those that waited for him. He wanted only to lie at its end in the arms of the forest, his friend by his side, and to sleep for as long as his dreams would hold him. The long morning ebbed away into an endless noon, the catkins shriveled and fell from their beds, and frost would seize the brook. In his footsteps, the last primroses were beginning to bloom.

 _And nobody ever knows when you go  
_ _And where do you start?_  
 _Oh, into the dark_


End file.
